This is safe, right Sherlock?
by ssaharadesert
Summary: When John and Sherlock take a case, it doesn't seem like much. One haunted house, one murderer, one cruel surprise...wait, did that just say haunted house? A fic where Sherlock just doesn't listen to reason. Injured!Sherlock and slightly injured!John. no slash, just slight bromance!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! For all my followers of 'Left Behind', my Avengers fic, if you didn't notice it on my profile, I'm not putting it on haitus. It's just waiting for me to figure out exactly what I want to happen. Maybe it'll be updated in the next few days...but I'm not here to talk about that! I'm here for Sherlock! And John! And their friends! (Well, about that...but you'll understand later!) **

**I'm looking to make this around twelve chapters. It'll be some Sherlock-whump, and a little John-whump. Nothing compared to the pain I'd like to put them through, but for my first fic, I'm going to take it easy. :D **

Dilapidated. Old. Disgusting. Those were all words that I used to describe the building in front of me and my colleague Sherlock Holmes. A thousand other words came to mind also, but those were my favorite.

We were at an abandoned house where a murderer was suspected of hiding. Three bodies had been found, and Sherlock had deduced that this would be the murderer's hiding spot. It was falling apart, completely rotted wood, two stories of rusty nails and termites.

Sherlock was standing next to me, examining the house with his usual style. It was early in the morning, around eleven, but very overcast, typical northern England weather for November. Chilly, but never snow, just icy rain. I stomped my feet to shake away the chill and get some blood flowing.

"Boring," Sherlock said.

"Excuse me?" I said, looking up to him, "How is this house boring?" We were outside the town, about fifteen miles away from civilization. Who knew that Scotland Yard had jurisdiction out here? I sure didn't, but Sherlock had insisted on coming out. Of course.

"The house is delightful. Your thoughts are boring." Sherlock replied, having already moved on in his head to more important matters.

"You really can't know what I was thinking of," I said doubtfully, "I've seen you do logical things, amazing, but logical. However, even you can't read minds."

"You were thinking of the weather, and how London never gets snow. You were wishing it would, but know it would require going abroad. You were complaining about the freezing rain."

I didn't dignify it with a response. I really needed to learn how to keep my mouth closed about things like that.

"You were glancing up at the sky and shivering. Dead giveaway that you are thinking about the weather." Sherlock explained in his way of sounding like he really didn't care.

He then moved on to the house, and pointed at one of the upper story windows. I noticed he wasn't as warm as he pretended to be- "I'm only as cold as I allow myself to be, John." – as his hand was shivering slightly. It was bloody cold out.

"I am perfectly fine, John," Sherlock said in a bored tone, "No doubt, as a doctor, you noticed I was shivering, but it is nothing. It will be warmer inside. Now, if you care to direct your attention to window on the second story, farthest to the right, you'll see it is clearer, not as cracked."

"So? What does that mean?" I said, wishing we would hurry on inside. I stomped my feet again.

"Clearly, it is a point of entry. The murderer entered there multiple times, thus requiring him to replace the window so it would be easier to get in and out. He should have gone with leaving a hole, it would have been much less noticeable in this vulgar place," Sherlock sniffed, clearly miffed at the murderer's lack of originality. I think the only reason why he took this 'boring' case was to torture Anderson and Donovan. Unfortunately, Anderson was sick, and Donovan had another case Lestrade had assigned her too. It disappointed Sherlock greatly, but I convinced him to keep with the case, and not throw Lestrade under the bus. So here we were.

"So are we going to have to climb up there?" I asked.

"No, John," He said in his 'how can one be so stupid?' voice, "We're going in the front."

"Why? Don't just tell me that because you don't want to climb up there, I've seen you leap from building to building so it's not that…"

"Good, John, you're partially deducing," Sherlock said approvingly, "We're going in the front because it is more than likely locked, and barricaded."

"And…won't he expect us there?"

"He expects no one to be able to get in there. He would have protected it the best, figuring it would be the weakest part of the house."

"So, that's really where he least expects us?"

"Exactly." Sherlock climbed up the steps lightly. I muttered under my breath about how silly the whole thing was, and followed him up.

Before Sherlock could knock at the door, a bloodcurdling screech filled the air from right next to us, and devilish face popping out at us from beside the door. Its eyes flashed while it maniacally laughed after the scream quit out suddenly.

My hands instantly went to where my gun was normally, but I hadn't brought it, assuming it would be more than just Sherlock and I here today. But a few moments, when my heart returned to normal and my adrenaline settled.

It was fake, a novelty hollow's eve toy you can find at any market. Sherlock had just calmly turned towards it and stared at it intently until the sound died and it stopped moving.

"Jesus," I said, glancing at him.

"Did I forget to mention that this was once a haunted house attraction and is no doubt home to all sorts of childish pranks and scares?" Sherlock said, relaxed.

"Yeah, a bit!" I said. I wanted to continue, but Sherlock had already broken down the front door, and entered the house.

"John! Come on!" Sherlock stepped back to stare at me expectantly, "Whatever are you doing out here?"

"Planning your murder," I muttered, and made to step over the doorstep, but Sherlock's arm appeared over my chest, stopping me.

I waited for him to speak, but he was running a light touch over the lock. What he found seemed to concern him, but I knew if he wanted to tell me, he would, and I didn't want to know if he didn't. He would all put it together in the end, and no doubt I would figure it out then.

He then let me pass, turning around so suddenly, his coat flew out and hit me. He flipped the lights. We were in some sort of entryway, with a grand staircase that was about the width of four normal staircases, expanded into darkness above us. There were four rooms branching off around us, and Sherlock had already disappeared into one of them.

**Ooh, scary! Not much of cliffie, but don't worry. I _love_ cliff-hangers! *Insert evil, sadistic grin*. There isn't much action here, but there'll be more later! **

**Don't forget to give that review button a nice punch in the mouth (like the kind I like to imagine John will give to Sherlock when he finds out he's alive! Or...the kind _I'd_ like to give to Sherlock for jumping off that damn building and putting me through months of emotional trauma!) **


	2. Chapter 2

**OKay, so this should be a little more action, but unfortunately it'll be one more chapter before it really becomes interesting. Bear with me through this, and I'll update tomorrow afternoon ( or sooner if you guys drop me a review!) **

**This is a little shorter than usual, but the next chapter should be longer!**

I wandered up to one, and tested the knob. Broom closet, I discovered, when I opened it. As Sherlock would say, boring.

I tried the next one, and saw a shoe closet. What, is the next one going to be a coat closet? I thought crossly, wishing Sherlock wasn't off having fun without me.

The next door turned out the lead to the kitchen.

"John." Sherlock said from behind me, suddenly there and very urgent, "Don't put your foot down."

I froze, my foot a half a centimeter from the floor of the kitchen, "Do I want to know?"

"If you do want to know, it more than likely causes spiders to fall from the ceiling or cockroaches to swarm from the floor. If you didn't want to know, disregard everything I just said."

I carefully pulled my foot back, "What was in the other room?"

"Hm?" He said, crouching by the tile.

"The other room? Sherlock, weren't you just there?" I asked exasperatedly.

He stood fluidly, "Of course I was." Then he pressed the tile down.

I jumped back as not spiders or cockroaches, but spiders _and _cockroaches attacked. Plus rodents just for the additional pop, because the others just weren't enough.

Sherlock walked through them just as casually as if vermin weren't crawling over his feet and legs. I shuddered. Neither bothered me much in a normal setting, but in this haunted house, it did have a certain amount of disgusting reality to it.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I said.

"They aren't real John. I'm just finding how to turn them off. If you notice, they are not leaving the kitchen, nor are they hiding from the light, as normal cockroaches do."

He was right. I hesitantly stepped into the disgusting kitchen, and followed him around as he examined every square inch of the room. The squeaking of the rats was grating on my nerves.

I finally found the switch to turn them off, and it all stopped; the noise, the movement, and the fake horror. Reality set back in.

"Remote controlled," Sherlock said dismissively, "Easily managed, easily believed."

I was starting to wonder if anything in this house would startle Sherlock. As we continued through the first floor, at least twenty rooms, each with at least one scare, more often than not two, he seemed to see each one coming. He just smiled at the cheesiness, while I jumped and skittered around. It was annoying, and just a bit embarrassing. Plus, I swear I could hear people laughing, and breathing every few minutes, and quiet footsteps following us, although when I looked, there was no one. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

We ended in the last room, the first one Sherlock had discovered, leading to the entryway. I had already had enough of all the scares, and was eager to leave. Plus, the house wasn't nearly as warm as Sherlock had promised, and I was slowly shivering again.

And he hadn't explained a single thing yet, although I know he was beginning to put it together. The dull lights flickered. All throughout the home, there was terrible lighting, and Sherlock and I had to resort to using our flashlights to see in the dusty corners and highest shelves. And as far as I could tell, the upstairs had no lights at all.

Sherlock just went on ahead without stopping. I kept close behind him, just in case something did pop out. I wasn't scared, per se, but I did feel better when he went first and activated whatever nasty was in store.

He froze close to the top, his balancing precarious. I tried not to run into him, obviously he was avoiding that step for a reason, but I hadn't watched carefully enough, and pushed him over on accident.

**What could that mean? You'll know tomorrow unless you give me a review and I decide to post the next chapter earlier!**

**P.S. I have a general outline for this story, but if there's something you want to see...let me know!**


	3. Chapter 3

The change was instantaneous. With a shuddering creak, the stairs closed, creating a slippery ramp. I fell on my hands and knees and slid down fairly controlled, gaining only slight burn from the metal on my hands and knees. I jumped to my feet, and could swear I could hear someone breathing nearby. I looked to see how my friend had done.

Sherlock hadn't been so lucky. His coat had closed in the ramp, causing him to fall backward just as he tried to turn. He tumbled head over heels all the way down, where I stopped him from barreling me over.

"You okay, mate?" I asked as he groaned.

"Perfectly fine, John," He said, climbing stiffly to his feet. I bet he was going to have some bruises. I turned away but saw it in my peripheral vision: Sherlock put just a bit of weight on his left leg, and instantly collapsed again the wall.

"Sherlock!" I said, crouching down immediately, "Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock, who had gone even paler when the pain had occurred, said through gritted teeth, "Ankle. Not a break. Just a sprain. It'll be fine."

He tried to get up again, but I stopped him with a hand to the shoulder, "Don't take it too fast, unless you want to break it," I said pointedly. Bedside manner was lost on Sherlock when it came to his health. You had to talk firmly and not back down about anything, or else he would run himself into the ground.

I felt the ankle, rotating it a little, and noting when he tensed. He might be able to keep an excellent poker face, but he couldn't keep his body from revealing what hurt and when.

"You're right," I sighed, "It's just a sprain. It'll be fine if you stay off of it for a few days, and keep it iced."

"Excellent." He said, and I helped him up, "Let's find another way up."

"Are you bloody insane?" I said, "The murderer, if he is here, probably heard the whole thing! Plus, you can't walk…" I trailed off as Sherlock ripped off part of a heavy curtain nearby and fashioned a makeshift splint quickly, using part of a picture frame he broke off as a stabilizer.

"I can walk just fine now," He said shortly. Indeed, he could hobble, but I noticed overall it caused him some pain. Well, he deserved it if he was going to be a stubborn ass about it.

"Sherlock," I said, exasperated, but tested the stairs. That brought back an earlier question I had.

"You knew they were trick stairs, didn't you?"

Sherlock replied distractedly, examining the post at the end of the railing, "Of course. Most stairs aren't meant to fit together so perfectly, meaning these were meant to fold down and create a slide. And there was metal under the carpet, which was cut to come apart. It might be a fashion choice or disused easy access ramp, but probably not. This was a haunted house; therefore it was to scare people. No doubt the tour guide would tell the crowd to wait at the bottom before climbing to the top, and falling such as you did to frighten them. They did not allow a crowd up here, for they might run into the same problem I did," He gestured to his coat angrily, where there was a nice hole now, "and cause accidental injury. And if the lights and other tricks work perfectly, it is assumed this one would too."

"But how did you know which stair would activate the slide?"

"The tour guide would have wanted to create greater suspense, meaning the trick stair must have been in the top quarter. It wouldn't be the first five, he wouldn't have wanted to knock his chin accidently on the edge. So that left the sixth or seventh. From there, the sixth stair was slightly raised above the other, meaning it had some give to push down to activate the trap."

I nodded, as it made sense. Of course, it always did _after_ he explained it.

"How else are we going to get up…ah." I said as the staircase unfolded back to normal.

"The button was placed in a hard to reach place, they wouldn't want children accidently setting it off," Sherlock murmured to himself.

"Eh?" I said, "Where was it?"

"Under the banister," Sherlock flipped up the top of the sphere sitting on the banister post, revealing a dusty button underneath.

"Ah," I said again, starting up the stairs. It wasn't until I reached the third one that I realized he wasn't barreling past me, intent on finding new areas to search. I turned and saw he was struggling to get up the stairs on a swollen ankle.

He waved me away when I returned to help him, "It's fine." But his teeth were gritted, and I was guessing he was close to stressing the sprain more, injuring it farther.

"Oh, sod off." I said, taking his arm and most of his weight, which wasn't much, even taking his height into consideration, "You're not heavy at all."

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, his grasp tight on the railing on his right and my arm on his left. In that manner, we limped up the stairs slowly. I could feel his arm starting to shake from the exertion.

When we reached the top, I forced his to sit and rest for a few moments. He wanted to go rushing off, but I wanted him to keep the ankle rested for a few moments after that, while I searched for a light switch.

When I found it, the lights were considerably dimmer than the lower ones. Probably on purpose, but maybe also because of the huge layer of dust that was settled on everything.

"Are you okay now?" I asked him, as he got to his feet awkwardly.

"Its fine, John." He said, limping towards the end of the hallway. He seemed determined to look in the room at the end on the right first, but I peeked in a few on our way down there. The staircase was right in the middle of the second floor, meaning it was surrounded by rooms. In the style of the haunted house, they were probably all connected, and we could pass through each on a path, much like we did downstairs.

Sherlock burst into the end room, and exclaimed, "Brilliant!" I followed him in, and saw that it was the room he had pointed out from outside. There was a bed, some rotted food, and a singular LED lamp. It looked like the murderer's campout.

Sherlock went back to the main hallway after a quick examination of the room, but I was sure he had gotten everything he wanted from it.

"Sherlock!" I whispered, "Can we go yet?" I was starting to get extremely creeped out. Then I heard that heavy breathing again. Hands grabbed my shoulder, and I whirled around. I won't admit to screaming, although Sherlock does tell me that I did swear quite loudly. My fist, which I had brought up instinctively, swung out and connected with something.

"Dammit!" I heard a voice say, a semi-familiar voice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Let's find out who our myst****ery killer is, shall we?**

"Sherlock!" I called, and heard him come running, "John! Are you alright?"

"Just fine, but I think we caught the murderer." I said, searching for the man, for it had been a man's voice, who must have fallen behind me somewhere.

"Boo!" A woman jumped out in front of Sherlock from one of the rooms, and he stumbled backwards, lost balance on his bad ankle, and fell on his butt, looking annoyed.

"Donovan?" I said, shocked, grabbing her, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Gotcha!" The man pinned my arms behind my back, and I struggled, before I was thrown on the floor next to Sherlock.

A flashlight, neither of ours, was turned on the man's face, and he turned out to be Anderson.

"Happy Hollow's Eve!" They both said, with identical wicked grins.

"You pranked us?" I gasped, "It was you I heard behind us! You activated all those traps!"

Sherlock got to his feet, grimacing in pain, "Of course, John. It obviously wasn't the murderer."

"Don't act so superior," Anderson crowed, "You just don't want to admit that we actually surprised you!"

Disdain crossed Sherlock's face, but he kept from speaking as he balanced against the wall and began massaging his swollen ankle.

That's right. Sherlock was hurt. I had almost forgotten in the shock of the moment.

"You realize your childish stunts could have broken his leg? Or mine? Or given either of us a concussion?" I demanded.

"Relax, doc." Donovan said, "We had control. We knew what we were doing," She grinned at Anderson, who looked like Christmas had come early. I looked closer, and grinned when I saw that I had given him a nice shiner on his left eye. He noticed my look, and touched his eye resentfully.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "C'mon, John. Let's go now." I winced internally for him at the thought of forcing him down those steps in his ankle, but I didn't want another ride on the Death Slide Supreme.

"Did you get everything you need?" I asked, taking his weight again, but going down was much easier than going up. I noticed angrily that Donovan and Anderson came with us, still smiling proudly at their prank.

Part of me had to admit it was pretty good.

Sherlock snorted, "Of course. Everything I could from when these imbeciles moved everything around."

"What are you talking about?" Donovan said from behind us, "We didn't move anything. We just turned on all the traps."

"The dust was misplaced, and ground in to the carpet from when things were recently dragged over it. It was disturbed in certain places too." Sherlock accused, "Such as the bookcase, the top of the fridge and the sitting room, places the murderer would not have been."

"Did you even check for the murderer before you lured us here?" I asked.

"Of course," Anderson said condescendingly, "We aren't as stupid as some assume. The house was completely empty." We reached the bottom of the stairs, and three things happened rapidly.

One, the front door was locked when Sherlock tried to open it.

Two, Anderson said, "We didn't touch anything! We didn't even go into half the rooms."

Three, I saw a shape at the top of the stairs out of the corner of my eye.

"Brilliant," Sherlock whispered, "He really is here."

**(AN: At this point, I was considering cutting this chapter off here, and making it another short one. But you have all been good with the reviews and favs, so here's a treat: another 1,000 words of suspense!) **

I gave a fruitless tug at the door one more time, but nothing happened. I looked at the other three. Donovan and Anderson were standing off to the side, while Sherlock paced as best he could with his ankle.

"The murderer is here," He announced suddenly, stopping and meeting my eyes.

"No way," Anderson scoffed, "Sally and I checked. No one is here except us."

"How do you explain the locked door then?" I asked him.

"Easy, it's a trap, a trick, mean to illusion you into the feeling that you're trapped. No doubt there is some kind of releasing mechanism." Donovan rolled her eyes.

"No," Sherlock said, "Fire hazard. This place was a business; it would have had to follow the safety code. A breach like that could not have been overlooked for long. Simple lock, probably easily picked. The murderer wants us here for a reason. He could have hidden and gotten away with it for a few hours, until Lestrade returned…" Sherlock trailed off, muttering to himself under his breath, occasionally going to one of the other rooms before returning. That continued for ten minutes while I alternated between glaring at the other two for getting us into this mess and leading us around while a _bloody murderer_ was walking around, and trying to get an answer out of Sherlock.

Anderson sat on the steps, his head in his hand, sneering slightly every time Sherlock came into view, not limping as much anymore as he forgot the pain.

"No doubt the spectacular genius will solve the problem, catch the murderer and save the day." He scoffed. I found a particular pleasure in seeing the beautiful black eye I had given him.

Donovan tried picking the lock several times, but was unable, because it was so old.

Finally Sherlock stopped, "John, do me a favor and walk around the path." I raised my eyebrows, but did as he wanted.

Sherlock looked satisfied, "He's upstairs, following our path down here. He's not targeting just one of us. We were not on his plan to murder, but he is taking advantage while he can. This is no amateur."

"Oh goody!" Anderson said, his voice dripping with fake excitement, "Your favorite!"

Sherlock turned to him, "Anderson, if you would do us the greatest kindness, proceed up the stairs."

"No way in hell," He said, "You just want to see me fall."

"No doubt I would obtain great joy from it," Sherlock said, "But that is not my purpose. Just go up the stairs, Anderson."

Anderson gave us a dirty look, but started up the stairs slowly. Sherlock nodded his head towards the kitchen, and I took it to mean he wanted me to go around the rooms again. I noticed he went towards the other door, the sitting room, as I did so.

I listened, but heard nothing from above me. I met Sherlock halfway down the path, in one of my least favorite rooms, where a giant clown had surprised me, with bloody hands and loud party makers, among other festive decorations gone bad.

"What did you hear?" Sherlock whispered, and I shook my head. He opened his mouth, but we both heard Anderson cry out from somewhere above us. At the same time, all the lights died. Not a single light could be seen. My eyes widened, and we raced back, Sherlock falling behind. Despite how well he might ignore it, he couldn't keep his leg from simply not being able to support his weight. It was going to turn into a terrible sprain by the time he got off of it. I flicked my flashlight on as I went, Sherlock doing the same behind me.

I got to Donovan first, and stared up the staircase. She was shaking, her face pale, "The murderer just grabbed him and ran!" She whispered shakily.

"Go on, John!" Sherlock said from behind me, just reaching the entryway, "I'll be right up!" I hated to leave him, but knew I was the fastest. Sally raced up beside me, leaving Sherlock on his own on the bottom, which felt like a mistake.

"Anderson?" I called out, starting down the left, which we hadn't been down yet. I figured that if I hadn't heard his footsteps above me on my side of the house, the right side, a few minutes ago, the murderer must have come and gone to the left, where Sherlock had been.

No luck. Sally went down the other way, but had no luck. Most of the doors were locked, and I figured that was where he went.

Sherlock was at the top of the stairs by then, panting with a pale face and light layer of sweat on his face.

"Nothing?" He said.

"Nothing," I confirmed, "Where could he be?" I turned to Sherlock, and noticed his face worriedly. Maybe his ankle really had been broken.

Sally screamed from behind me, and the sound cut out unevenly. I whipped around, and briefly saw a black outline of a man before he slammed the door shut, locking Sherlock and I out, and taking Sally.

"Damn," I muttered, keeping close to Sherlock.

"Take my hand," He ordered, "We'll be safer together until we find them." I did so, noticing neither of us were shaking anymore. The excitement and energy had warmed both of us momentarily. At least I remember seeing both of the other two in warm clothing; heavy parka with a scarf for Sally, and a thick hunting coat for Anderson. They probably wouldn't freeze.

I turned at every sound, knowing the murderer would be coming for one of us.

**I have to admit this is one of my favorite chapters, but the best is still to come! Thanks for the review JW, the singular person who reviewed. C'mon guys, five seconds to tell me that you love/hate/like/are only slightly interested in my story, and you can be on your way. :)**

**And Morgendorffer, yes i know you reviewed. But you're morally obligated, so it doesn't count! lylas, Morgendorffer! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi guys! Thanks for being so patient :D**

A crack sounded through the air, so close and so loud I thought it was gunshot. I flinched, red flashing across my vision momentarily, before looking down, expecting to see a blossom of blood streaming across my body. But there was none.

I processed this all in the time it took for Sherlock to collapse next to me. "Sherlock?" I cried, dropping down next to him.

He was still here, the murderer hadn't taken him. That didn't comfort me, however. It may mean that he was…

"No," I whispered, but couldn't help ending my thoughts anyway; _dead_.

I rolled him over, keeping a close eye on our surroundings. I couldn't help Sherlock if I was 'taken'. He was unconscious, and I ran light fingers over his whole body. He was completely fine, except for one spot on his forehead that was bleeding, and bruising quickly.

The murderer must have come up and struck his in his head with something, knocking him out. My immediate concerns were bleeding inside his head and him not waking up soon. I pressed as lightly as possible on the bruise, and sighed a breath of relief when he flinched. That meant that there was no internal bleeding. If there had been, he wouldn't have recognized the pain.

Also, it woke him up. "John?" He asked groggily, trying to sit, but taking a sharp breath, his hand going straight to his head.

"Shh," I comforted him, "I need to check for a concussion. Just relax."

He murmured something, but I couldn't make it out. I took my flashlight and turned it on, facing down. If he did have a concussion, the wide beam of the flashlight would not feel good, but I had to check his eyes.

Sherlock did wince when the light came on. I pulled the light up, and as soon as it was close enough to touch his eyes, he pushed it away.

"No," He slurred, "I'm fine."

"No, I think you have a pretty bad concussion. Just trust me, Sherlock, I'm a doctor," I reminded, "Do you remember what happened?"

"Anderson? Donovan?" He said.

"What happened to them?" I asked, taking his pulse. Steady for the most part, if a little slow.

"I don't know." He admitted. His speech was slightly slow, not smooth and rapid like normal, "Do I have a concussion?"

I held the light up, locking his face into place with my hand, "Relax. It might hurt now, but it'll go away soon."

"I have a headache," He groaned. I checked his pupils. Delayed reaction. And his movements were lethargic as they moved to block the light.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here," I murmured, thinking guiltily of Anderson and Donovan. The minute he moved even three inches taller, he sank back down to the ground.

"Are you dizzy?" I asked, leaning over him so I was the only thing he could see. Yup, definite focusing/concentration issues at work too. If this wasn't a concussion, I didn't know what was.

He took a deep breath and nodded microscopically.

"Nauseous?"

"Slightly."

"You have a concussion." I told him.

"I have a concussion?" He seemed mildly surprised by this information, "How?"

"No need to worry about it," I said calmly, but I wasn't sure what to do. Two of our, well, not friends, but two people we knew were in here, and a murderer who knew an hell of a lot more about this place than we did was walking around. Sherlock probably couldn't move, and I knew the murderer was playing with us.

It was quick and silent. The second I stood to look around, the blow came across my chest, knocking me clean off my feet. I flew through the air, landing on the few bottom stairs and breaking my spine in half, according to the pain.

It was definitely deeply bruised, I noticed as I tried to clamber to my feet. The pain was great, but knowledge that the killer was up there with Sherlock was greater. Sherlock was dizzy, confused and lost; he wouldn't be able to protect himself even if it wasn't completely dark, even if the killer wasn't psychotic.

I began to run up the stairs, but they had turned into the slide. I tried the button, but it didn't work. I hit it repeatedly, but had to admit, it was disconnected. I tried to climb up the slide, but it was too steep, too slippery, and I couldn't get a grip in the shoes and clothes I was wearing.

Bloody hell. What was I supposed to do?

_Think like Sherlock_. I thought instantly. What would Sherlock do? Look for less obvious ways up? Try to override the disconnected button? Reason with the murderer?

Sherlock wouldn't do any of these things. He would have already known the murderer's style, and planned appropriately. I had not his power of deduction, however, and couldn't guess the murderer's next move.

So I sank to the ground in pain, my spine refusing to move anymore. I knew now that I was sitting, I couldn't move. To prevent more injury, I would have to sit still. I decided I would do that, for I was no good to anyone if my back was paralyzed or locked by continuous movement, but if I heard one of the others in immediate danger, I would do everything I could to help.

**Poor John! I'm pretty sure I went overboard on Sherlock's concussion symptoms but it's so much fun to torture poor Sherlock! But don't blame me for that, I'm still going through my Sherlock withdrawal since season three won't come out for ages, and unfortunately, putting Sherlock in pain is one of the remedies!**

**This is going to be a short one, but I'll post everyday for the next week if you guys want me too! But I'm not a mindreader, so you'll have to let me know via that cute little review button down there. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, my 'chapter a day' thing hasn't worked out so well. But it will now! **

**P.S. THIS IS IN THE MURDERER'S POV just so no one gets confused. And yes, i did try my best to make it as creepy as possible without it being all like 'whaaaaaaaaaat?' **

I watched in fascination at how successful my plan was. When the first fools had wandered in, I had almost taken them then.

But then I heard them mention two other 'Freak' and 'Doctor' and I knew they would be having friends, maybe many friends, over.

I like friends.

So Freak and Doctor had come. Fool 1 and Fool 2 had passed by me several times. I touched Fool 1 sometimes, liking the way the body felt against my fingers. They hadn't even noticed.

It was amusing, watching them find my setup room, watching them activate all the traps.

I like surprises.

The slide had been activated, and I laughed when 'Doctor' had been hurt. Then I realized the other man was the 'Doctor' and the hurt man was the 'Freak'.

That upset me. I don't make mistakes. Ever.

The tall man in black must be a doctor. No doubt he was trying to trick me. I enjoyed his pain.

I like pain.

So I took Fool 1 first, when he came wandering. I wanted the 'Doctor' to realize that by tricking me, he had to pay a price.

Fool 1 was hanging by his wrists over a pit of spikes. Every once in a while I will go loosen them, forcing him to tighten his grip to keep from being impaled. It is a fascinating game.

I like games.

Fool 2 was in the tiniest room I could find. She mentioned being claustrophobic. That isn't deadly, unfortunately. So she is running out of air.

'Freak' is at the bottom of the slide. I thought pushing him would break his neck, and I will go down and finish the job later.

'Doctor' requires my attention now.

I put him in a tank. It fit even him, providing plenty of extra room.

I will fill it with water and watch him drown.

The glass is break proof.

I like it all.

I love everything.

**BRRRR. I think I just got a chill. But since you guys have been so good with the reviews, I'm going to post another chapter tonight! But they're both really short, so all in all, it's like one chapter. **

**P.P.S. 'Freak' is John and 'Doctor' is Sherlock, just in case. I don't know how much sense I make sometimes, so if no one caught that part...**

**Oh, and Fool 1 is Anderson, and Fool 2 is Donovan. I know that part wasn't clear, so this is my way of fixing it :) **

**Thanks for reviewing! *hint, hint!* **


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, this is in Sherlock's POV, and then it'll go back to longer chapters in John's POV tomorrow. What? Long chapters? I can't remember the last time I posted a chapter over 1,000 words! **

The room was spinning, and there seemed to be a fuzzy layer of plastic in front of my vision.

I reached out and pushed against it. It was solid.

What did that mean?

I couldn't deduce what it meant. I got a chill from that.

No, the chill was from the icy air filling up around me.

No, not air. Water.

Water? Why was there water?

I blinked, and through the splitting headache, I saw that I was in a glass tank, about five inches taller than I was, ceiling to floor overall, a few inches wider than my shoulders.

I was leaning heavily against one side of the tank, my ankle pounding in time with my headache.

Not my headache. My heart.

All three of them pounded.

I thought I remembered John.

I couldn't remember anything.

"John." I said thickly, "John."

I looked down and saw a thin layer of icy water filling up around my shoes. It was filling slowly from the bottom.

Would I drown?

I dearly hoped not. I always planned my death as fire and explosion, not dark and cold.

Where was John?

Why wasn't he saving me?

Isn't that what he did? Saved me?

Maybe…maybe he needed saving too.

No.

I had no self-interest; I didn't care as long as John was fine.

I had to get out of this damn tank.

It didn't help that I couldn't _think_.

My mind should have made thousands of deductions regarding getting out of the tank. Trillions of connections, millions of ideas, and at least a handful of escape plans.

Yet I had nothing.

What was wrong with me?

Concussion.

Obvious.

But concussions were common for me; was this one more serious? Had I really damaged my brain?

No.

My brain was just as fine as I wanted it to be.

You said the same thing about being cold, Sherlock.

I was so cold…

**Hey, Morgendorffer! Yeah, you, morgendorffer! Check out chapter two! :D Fixed it!**

**So...whaddya think? Too much? Not enough? What am I talking about? There is NEVER enough Sherlock-whump in this world! :D **

**Wow, Benedict Cumberbatch better hope I never become the writer for Sherlock. I think we all know why :)**

**Anyhow...review! Thanks! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Yuppers, this is back in John's POV. it's not as long as i thought... :(**

I needed to get to Sherlock. That was certain. He, and regretfully, Donovan and Anderson were probably worse off than I was.

That changed in a matter of moments. The murderer leapt out of the shadows, a shadow himself. Only my military experience kept me alive.

A hatchet. A bloody hatchet. What was this world coming too, that honest men were being cleaved open by _hatchets?_ Was this the bloody middle ages?

I leapt backwards again, almost passing out from the pain in my back. Spots danced before my eyes, and I struggled for a grip on the banister behind me, the staircase railing, anything, to keep upright.

I figured I was about to get split open, when I swung my leg out and knocked him over. His head hit the floor with a loud thud. I leapt over him, and pinned him to the floor, holding pressure to his throat until he passed out.

Finally. A break. Now to find Sherlock and the other two.

I felt around his pockets, but found nothing of importance before taking the hatchet. It was safer in my hands than his.

Sherlock's voice sounded in my head, "You left without looking at him? How stupid." I sighed, and pulled off his mask, revealing a twenty year old man with sandy hair and a boyish face.

I turned before sentiment could interfere. I wanted to go up the stairs, but my back had other ideas. It was the very essence of hell; agony and fire and torture. I could barely move. Adrenaline had gotten me this far, but it wouldn't last much longer.

I cursed in frustration, so damn tired of my body not working.

How was I supposed to save anyone if I couldn't bloody well _move?_

I leaned over the stairs, keeping my upright position only by the keeping a tight grip on the banister, and punched the nearest wall in anger. "Help me!" I shouted, before sighing. I figured if I couldn't move up the stairs, I could at least watch the murderer.

"John?" I turned in surprise, for the voice had come from behind me. And the only things behind me were the unconscious murderer….and the front door.

"John?" The voice said again, and I blinked in surprise. Was that….DI Lestrade? Greg?

"Greg?" I called out slowly, "Is that you?"

"John? John, I can barely hear you." Lestrade called through the door, "Hurry and unlock this, we got a distress call from Donovan."

"Greg," I said again, but my back wouldn't have it. I collapsed on the floor, completely immobilized now. My spine felt like it was molten lava, and I wished I was outside just so the cool night air would soothe the burning.

"John, are you hurt? Unlock the door, John! Is Sherlock or Donovan there? Sherlock! Donovan!" Greg continued to talk through the door, but my vision swam for a moment before it blurred completely and I fell unconscious.

When I awoke, I doubted much more than ten minutes had passed. I was in the same position, and the same level of pain, and I groaned, semi-unconscious of the fact.

There was a drilling sound at the door, and I figured they were cutting it down.

Then the sound stopped, and gentle hands were lightly touching my shoulder, "John? John, what's wrong?"

"Back…" I grunted, "Extreme….spinal…bruising."

Lestrade clicked his tongue in sympathy, "Sorry, mate. Let's get you more comfortable while we wait for the paramedics, shall we?"

I nodded to the best of my capabilities when I noticed the other figure lying on the floor beside him. The murderer!

Then….Sherlock! Sherlock, captured! Concussive! Hurt! Donovan, and Anderson!

"Greg…" I said, panicking, "Sherlock…the murderer…"

"Hold it, John," Lestrade soothed, "This is the murderer, yes? That's right. We'll get him up and behind bars in no time. Now, where are Sherlock and Donovan?"

"Taken…kidnapped…by him." I was definitely feeling woozy and dizzy at this point, although Greg was just helping me lay out flat on his back. The sheer amount of pain was astounding, almost rival to my bullet wound. Maybe worse than my bullet wound.

"Good, John. Just relax." Lestrade nodded to his juniors to remove the murderer, and kept one hand on my good shoulder for comfort.

"Sherlock…"

"We'll find him, John. He'll be fine. I'll go look myself, as soon as we get you loaded up in the EMS, yeah?"

"No, now." I gritted my teeth as wave after wave of pain washed down my back, radiating into my head and every inch of my body.

"John, you're extremely injured. You could end up paralyzed if you aren't careful. My constables are looking, just let me make sure you're okay first." Lestrade almost pleaded.

I had time for one more thought before the pain dragged me under; _Greg wants to make sure I'm okay at the expense of Sherlock? _

**Hey, guys! yeah, you guys, you with eyes reading this right now! Please review? No one reviewed on the last two chapters, and that makes me wonder if I did something wrong. So if I did, tell me! and if I didn't, tell me also! Please?**

**Thanks! If I get enough reviews, I'll post two more chapters tomorrow before and after the superbowl! **


	9. Chapter 9

**You guys are awesome! Thanks for all the reviews. I know I said I would post before and after the superbowl, but that didn't happen, sorry :(**

**BTW I don't know who Donovan's partner in the series is, so I just made someone up, Leslie is an OC. If you do know if she has a partner, please tell me! **

**Oh, and don't hate me for this chapter. I know a lot of us aren't fans of Donovan and Anderson, but I had to put this in here or the story wouldn't flow right. But after this, it's Sherlock-whump all the way!**

I sighed as John passed out again. I was well past concerned for John's condition; I hadn't lied to him when I told him he might be paralyzed.

He looked terrible, sweaty and tense and just plain old agonized. But he was still worried about Sherlock when he should have been concerned for his own health.

I wondered how much of his injury he aggravated and worsened by trying to help Sherlock. How much pain he could have saved himself by not caring for the high-functioning sociopath.

But we all had one weakness, and John's was Sherlock. I would never admit it, but I worried about the detective also. Ever since I had practically saved him from the brink of death, I had become slightly affectionate. When he was hurt, I helped, simple as that. John was the one who worried needlessly.

And according to John, Sherlock was hurt. He babbled something about a concussion, and Donovan and Anderson. I had no idea who the concussion applied too, though I had a faint idea that John himself had a mild concussion. And where Anderson fit into all of this, since he took a sick day. Or how Donovan got here in the first place, since she was supposed to be researching the Exxer/Leleady case.

"Sir, come quick!" One of my juniors ran up, shock written all over his face, "Quickly!"

"Why?" I said, hesitating to leave John passed out on the floor.

"It's the forensic scientist, Anderson, sir!"

I cursed and followed the junior upstairs quickly, discovering easily the cruelest situation I've seen Anderson in. He was being hung by his wrists over a bloody pit of spikes.

His eyes were hazy and distant, and he didn't seem at all lucid. Quickly, and with the help of a few constables, we were able to get him on the floor and untied. I winced in sympathy at the bruises that had formed from being hung so uncomfortably.

I quickly requested more paramedics at the scene then those I had just required for John. I then radioed Donovan, and found her radio in the room at the very end of the hallway, an obvious campout. The murderer's hidey-hole, then. I looked around a little, but didn't gain much. I would have to wait for Sherlock…

Sherlock. Him, and Donovan were still missing in this bloody haunted house. After this, I was not stepping inside one of these hellholes for another second.

"Have you found Donovan or Holmes yet?" I barked out, impatiently going back down to John. A chorus of "No, sirs!" answered me. Thankfully though, the first ambulance arrived quickly after that, though the others were still en route.

"Where is the patient?" The head paramedic asked, and I led him to John, who still looked sickly and broken.

One of the paramedics whistled appreciatively, "He's in for a hell of a recovery session and physical therapy."

I winced, and he noticed, "I'm sorry, is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes," I said shortly, "Will therapy be necessary? He's already had some for…other injuries."

"And let me guess, he's a vet? Not a fan of therapy? Both? Poor fella." The medics had him loaded and wheeled him away.

"Sir, you may want to hear this," Donovan's partner approached me, looking slightly sick to his stomach, "The murderer is awake."

I went to the murderer, and he yelled, "The great Holmes is dead, you hear me? I KILLED SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

Unfortunately, John awoke at the very moment, and heard the whole thing. Whether he comprehended it was questionable.

But by the sudden panic in his eyes, I was guessing he did.

"Sherlock!" He began to yell also, "Sherlock!"

"John, calm down, Sherlock's fine." I said, looking helplessly at the paramedics. They tried to calm John through sedatives, but he refused to be knocked out.

"Greg!" He begged wildly when he saw me, "Let me stay! I have to know what happened to Sherlock!"

"John…"

"Please, Greg, I want to know how he is. Please, Greg, _please._"

I opened my mouth to send him away, but then realized how awful a position he must be in. His best friend was missing in the horror-house of a deranged murderer, and he himself was crazy with pain.

How could I send him away to care for his own health when that of his friend was so unknown?

I sighed, and said to the older man, "If I let you stay, will you take some pain killers and let them treat you?"

"Yes, Greg, of course. Just let me stay."

I turned to the paramedics, "Can you do that? Is that too much of a hassle?" What I really wanted to ask is if that would endanger John anymore, make the risk of paralysis any worse. But that would piss John off.

The paramedic seemed to sense that, and said, "He'll be just as fine here as he would at the regional hospital."

"Thank you," I said gratefully, "Keep me updated."

"Will do, mate."

I turned to Donovan's partner, Leslie, and said, "What does our killer have to say about Sherlock and Sally?"

"Not much, unsurprisingly. He's very open, but unaware of what he is saying. Most of it is irrelevant." Leslie dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

"Anything at all? This house isn't very big, and they still haven't been found." I said, concerned for the whereabouts of my team and my consulting detective.

"Nothing, except one thing about claustrophobia. I thought he might be claustrophobic, but he didn't answer."

Claustrophobia…..Donovan had claustrophobia. He wouldn't have exploited that, would he? What am I saying, of course he would. Poor Sally….

"Leslie…did you ever think about Sally's claustrophobia?"

Leslie widened his eyes and cursed, "Damnation. Of course….we have to find her, Greg!"

"We will. I promise we will find her." I said, keeping my voice calm and reassuring. However, I was getting extremely frustrated, and I could tell that it showed physically.

"Sir, there's a locked door leading to the attic." A junior appeared, and his voice was worried.

"And? Break it down!"

"I believe Agent Donovan is behind the door, sir. I don't want to hurt her, or frighten her. I figured the dimensions of the room, and am afraid it is rather…small."

Next to me, Leslie cursed again and began striding quickly back towards the house. The junior and I quickly followed him.

We went up the stairs, into one of the side room and there was a tiny little door that looked like it led to a storage room. It wasn't above the second floor, but rather next to it. And by my guess, it was a very tiny room.

"Wait…" Leslie said with dawning horror, "Is that door…airtight?" He choked on the word. I noticed the seal on it, and my mouth dropped open, "No…" I wasn't answering his question, but denying the real answer.

"We have to get her out of there! If she hasn't run out of air already, she will soon!" Leslie yelled, dropping to his knees, "Sally! Sally!"

There was no noise from the other side, but I figured we wouldn't be able to hear through the solid wood and tight sealing if there had been a sound.

I flipped out a pocketknife and lightly worked the blade between the seal and the floor. It was a very tight seal, and I had a feeling that only breaking the door down would help.

"Get the saw," I commanded, "Go! Go now! Quickly!" As the juniors ran around like chickens with their heads cut off, and Leslie hassled everyone to hurry, I knocked quietly on the wood surrounding the door. I could tell just by listening where the adjacent wall was, and where to saw so I wouldn't harm Sally.

They handed me the saw, and I carefully lined it up against the adjacent wall so it would cut just on the outside of it. I wouldn't be breaking into the room, so I wouldn't run the risk of hitting Sally. However, this may weaken the wall enough to pull it away from her and let her out safely.

It took a few nerve-wracking minutes for me to completely access the adjacent wall.

"Okay, Lee." I said to Leslie, "Your turn. She's going to be a wreck when she gets out of here." Leslie nodded solemnly, and I knew he would be the best person to handle Sally at this point.

"Sir, the rest of the ambulances are here! Junior Carter just took Anderson to them."

Good. I thought, and I gently pressed against the wall.

**Again, don't hate me for this Anderson/Donovan chapter here. It needed to be done, and now its out of the way! So much Sherlock whump is about to go down, like you won't believe!**

**And if you didn't understand the Donovan thing, she's in a tiny room and Greg is trying to get her out. Ignore the technicalities and just go with that :) **

**Now keep reviewing! Thanks! **


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, just a bit more to hammer out with Donovan so this story is actually logical and realistic, then on to my, and hopefully your, favorite part! SHERLOCK! :D **

**BTW the medical info in here is stuff i got from reading other fanfics and such. Really, i have no idea what's going on. But if you do, please ignore it, kay? I tried to research it, but apparently you have to be a doctor and such... :(**

The wall cracked almost immediately due to the stress of the saw on the old wood. Soon, Leslie was pulling Sally out of a small crack in the wall.

She took a deep, gasping breath as soon as she was clear of the room. I shared an extremely worried glance with Leslie. She hadn't been breathing, at least not well, before now, and who knows what kind of affect that would have on her brain?

I wished John was here to do his doctor things, but I commanded Leslie to carry her downstairs immediately, while I followed.

"Here, I have her, I have her!" Leslie shouted at the new paramedics, "Hurry! Her oxygen levels might be too low!"

They soon had her hooked up to an oxygen mask, and I waited anxiously with Leslie to see how she was.

Her eyes soon fluttered, but she didn't wake.

"Is she supposed to unconscious still?" Leslie whispered tensely.

"Her ox-sat levels were uncomfortably low, almost in the sixties. I don't have any medical history on her, but for an average person of her height, weight, and amount of physical activity, that's borderline fatal. You got to her just in time." The paramedic said solemnly, like she was on her deathbed.

Leslie opened his mouth, but seemed unable to get the words out. Finally, he said, "Will she be okay?"

"It's possible she could have some memory loss, but it should all be recovered in time. Her balance and cognitive functions likewise will be slightly off for a few days. She'll probably wake up in the next few hours."

I had to smile. Even though the diagnosis was grim, it sounded like she would be fine in the long run.

"And Anderson?" I asked, the pit in my stomach returning.

"Slightly better condition. He'll be sore for a couple of weeks, and won't be able to life his arms above his shoulder for a while, but he should make a full recovery. I'm unsure of whether physical therapy will be required for his shoulders, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say no, it's not required. He also had a nasty blow to the head, and two broken ribs, but those will all heal in time. He's already awoken, but we put him back under to help him heal and relax, and not stress those shoulders."

"John?"

"Still holding on, I'm afraid. He has stated expressly that he doesn't want to be drugged until Mr. Holmes is found, but it would better for him if he would just relax."

"How is his spine?" I winced in sympathy just from thinking about the excruciating pain he must be in.

"Not broken, thankfully. But it will be extremely sore, and bruised for a while. He'll be in a wheelchair and confined to bed rest for up to a month, maybe even more."

I shuddered to think of John being stuck in his flat with Sherlock Holmes for over a month, unable to get away. And the sociopath, high-functioning or not, would not make it any easier.

"Will there be surgery?" I wondered.

"More than likely, if only to make sure that there are no complications."

"Thank you. Radio if you need me or something changes."

"Of course, sir."

I wandered back into the house, but found nowhere to search for Sherlock that at least three people were not already searching. Some weren't trying that hard, but others were genuinely looking for the man.

"Hey, I think I found something!" Someone finally yelled from the second floor, "I got a loose floorboard!" I ran upstairs along with a flock of curious people, but shoved my way to the front.

"Let me see, let me see," I said impatiently, "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I will fire you all if you do not step back immediately!"

**(AN: Sorry, I just had to put an awkward break here just to say that I love that last line! Really, I just need to here the real Lestrade say that to a bunch of people now!) **

There was an instantaneous ripple through the crowd as a large space appeared around the broken floorboard. But no one left. Wonderful, I had an audience.

"Show me." I commanded of the junior.

He lifted the board slightly, and I saw that it looked…newer, somehow. Less scuffed and rotted.

"Pull it all the way up." I said, bending down to the help him. By removing a surrounding circle of floorboards, we revealed a circular pulley system for leading down into what looked like a basement.

"It goes behind the stairs," I noticed, "So it wouldn't be noticed in the building plans."

The junior nodded, "Shall I go down first?"

"No, I will. Stay here and don't follow until I tell you too."

Another nod, and I stepped on the wooden platform that would lower me down the hole into the basement. I had to use the rope to take myself down, and I gripped it tightly, wondering if it was too old to hold my weight.

I descended slowly, keeping an eye on the approaching ground. It was definitely a basement; I went down about the distance of the first floor before I reached an open space.

I looked around the space, but saw nothing but a slight glow from behind a curtain that acted as a wall.

I walked towards it warily, wondering if I was about to find Sherlock hung like Anderson was.

What I found was much, much, much worse.

**Of course, we already kinda know what kind of trouble Sherlock is in...**

**Please review! And if you didn't understand what I'm saying with the pulley, if you've ever seen National Treasure (With Nic Cage! Morgerdorffer!), just imagine that rickety old wooden thing in the end of the movie, only less sophicated and smaller. :D**


	11. Chapter 11

**Are you ready for pure awesomeness? If this isn't your favorite chapter yet, you're insane, certifiably. :) **

Sherlock was in a giant tank, like the kind you see in alien movies. Thankfully, I saw no tubes connecting to him, no drugs being pumped into him. Thank god for the silver lining.

But I also didn't see an oxygen line to anywhere, and water was slowly passing his chin. He didn't seem at all aware of the fact however. His eyes were closed, and he appeared dead already.

"No…" I whispered, stunned silence holding me for only a moment more, before I began shouting, "I found Holmes! I found Sherlock Holmes! Get the paramedics and a hammer! Get an oxygen mask! Get blankets!" If the color of Sherlock's lips and skin were any clue, that water was ice cold. His lips were purple, and his skin chalky.

People rushed down the elevator, causing it to creak unsteadily. I worried about it breaking, but it held, and I promptly forgot about it.

"Break him out, now!" I demanded, pounding on the tank to try to wake him up. No response. I worried now, worried more than I've ever worried about Sherlock.

I worried about hypothermia, and I worried about shock. I worried about the blood on the side of his face where it hadn't been washed away. I worried about pneumonia, and comas. I worried.

"The glass is unbreakable!" One person gasped, "Get the hammer!"

"Hammer! Get the hammer!"

I shook my head in frustration. The glass felt solid, and I had a bad feeling that a simple hammer wouldn't be enough to break it. But hitting the glass with a diamond between it and the hammer...

I knew no glass had a chance against getting hit by a diamond; Moriarty had proven that in the vault. But the water was just passing Sherlock's mouth, and still he didn't stir.

"I'm sorry, John." I whispered, fearing the worst, that it would be too late.

"We don't have anything to break the glass with, Greg!" One of the constables told me, "It's a mimic of gorilla glass; it's unbreakable."

I swore, pounding on the glass again, before spying a ring on the hand of one of the juniors, inset with a diamond.

"Would that work?" I asked, pointing out the ring. The constable shrugged, and I went to ask the junior.

"Beautiful ring you have."

She sighed, "I knew you'd ask the minute you found out the glass was unbreakable. Have it, anything to save the great Sherlock Holmes." She smirked, but it wasn't cruel or derogatory; just ironic. I bent the prongs holding the diamond into place outwards, letting the diamond tumble into my hand. I gave the band back, promising to pay to have the diamond replaced personally. She just shooed me toward the tank with hurried motions.

I pressed the diamond against the glass with gum, hollering for the hammer. Water was just passing his nose.

I hit the diamond once, but nothing happened. Water was up to his eyes, and he began to sink to the floor.

I cursed and hit it again, harder. Still nothing happened. Sherlock let a small trail of bubbles escape his mouth. My heart stopped.

I hit it again, and invisible cracks that had been spreading across the tank shattered, sending water and glass flying. Small cuts appeared on Sherlock's shirt and face, but no blood appeared. That was a sign enough for me. I tore through the glass, and laid him flat on his back.

"CPR!" Someone yelled, but I was already doing compressions, while a paramedic checked for a pulse. I paused to give him an accurate reading.

He froze, and that was all I needed to go throw myself back into action, forcing Sherlock's heart to beat.

"Get the machine!" The paramedic yelled, panic evident in his voice, "There's no pulse!"

"No pulse?" The words were passed throughout the room and constables and juniors crowded in it.

I paused with my compressions to push air into Sherlock's lungs, and noted worriedly that his chest barely rose. He had some water in his lungs, then. That could cause pneumonia, or all sorts of complications.

"There's water in his chest." I informed them quickly, "He's not breathing…"

Someone pulled me away, and they yelled "Clear!" as they tried to zap the life back into him. Nothing.

"Greg…" Someone said into my ear.

"Clear!" Again, nothing.

"If he doesn't make it…" The person continued in my ear.

"Clear!" No reaction, no movement, no anything….

"Don't blame yourself. Okay? You did all you could to find him in time."

"Clear!"

"They're going to have to call it after this, Greg. I don't think he's going to make it…"

"No!" I yelled at the same time they called out, "Clear!"

"There's a pulse!" Someone said.

"We got a beat!"

"Someone clear out his lungs!"

"Get a stretcher!"

The paramedics continued to shout and run around, and most of the constables and juniors were forced upstairs. I sank to the ground, however, relief and shock coursing through me.

I noticed the voice in my ear had been the girl who had given up her ring. I would have to thank her later at work.

"Let's get him to a hospital!" They loaded him on the pulley system, but due to the size of the stretcher, no one could ride with him. People were waiting at the top to wheel him out, however.

An ominous creaking sounded as they began to pull him up, and my eyes darted up.

The creaking grew louder until, with a loud snapping, the pulley system broke, sending Sherlock crashing down.

I leapt to my feet, allowing no time for shock. Thankfully, some paramedics were still down here with me, and they rescued him from the wreckage fairly easily.

"What happened? Did it hurt him more?" I demanded, hands shaking.

"It jarred him, and his head…Greg, he has a very serious brain injury." The paramedic was speaking slowly and carefully. I froze, mouth open, suddenly very cold.

"This jarring may have…ruined any chance of a full recovery." He continued, looking at me with concerned eyes, "You may want to sit down."

"No, just tell me the rest." I said quietly, "I want to know."

"He may never wake up, Greg. He's extremely comatose right now, as it is, and it'll only get worse."

Sherlock. Never. Wake. Up? No more snarky comments? No more complaining? No more annoying detective to depend on? Who would solve my cases in five minutes flat? Who would make my job so enjoyable? I certainly didn't like this job because of its _pay_.

I did want to sit down, it turned out. I leaned against wall, sliding down until I was on my butt.

But when Sherlock was lifted out using stable rope, I demanded they pull me out next so I could go with him, and John, Donovan and Anderson, to the hospital.

Donovan and Anderson were already there. Each of the four invalids had their own ambulance. John's was still here, hopefully.

John would be devastated if he didn't know immediately the severity of Sherlock's injuries.

I ran outside, following the paramedics and put one of the constables in charge of the crime scene and organizing everything.

I decided to ride with John so I could talk to him and not be in the way of Sherlock's treatment. Sherlock's ambulance took off with breakneck speed, and John's followed almost as quickly.

"Greg." John murmured drowsily, "Sherlock found?"

"Yes, John. We found Sherlock."

"Is he…okay?" John seemed lost in his own pain and injuries, and I nodded permission to give him morphine.

"John…" I said as a warning that the news wouldn't be good.

John struggled to look at me, struggled to understand the implications of my words, "Greg. Is he alive?"

"Barely." I whispered. John looked stricken, "How bad?" He whispered back, terror on his face.

"He may never wake up from his coma." I told him, finally losing it. I didn't cry, but I clenched my fists and covered my eyes with my elbow.

"Greg." John begged, "Greg…" The morphine kicked in at that moment, and he quickly passed out, or fell asleep, and I sighed.

"Get us there quickly, please." I told the paramedic, and he nodded in sympathy, "I'm sorry, but this is going to be a long night."

I nodded in agreement, leaning against the back of the wall.

**I have to tell you, there were an infinite amount of cliff hangers in this chapter. But I choose the least evil one I could, which was here :D **

**Thanks for the reviews! **

**And yes, I do realize I totally copied Moriarty with the diamond thing, but in my defense, I thought it was really cool!**


	12. Chapter 12-Final Chapter!

**BTW this is in Lestrade's POV :) **

I paced in the waiting room of the hospital. Sherlock and John were in intensive care. Donovan and Anderson were not.

Mycroft Holmes had already been there, and bless his soul; he had made sure that all four of them had their own corner of rooms, as far away from everyone else as humanly possible.

Sherlock and John would not be in these rooms for a while, but Anderson and Donovan were there. Donovan was awake, but Anderson was still on a painkiller for his shoulders, and that had him knocked out pretty well for the time-being.

Both would recover fully. Donovan would not suffer extreme brain injury. She was foggy on what happened from when Sherlock and John discovered her and Anderson in the house onward, but I had filled her in to the best of my knowledge.

Hearing about Anderson and Donovan's prank had been a slap to the face. The actual prank hadn't been harmful, but its consequences were potentially deadly.

Anderson would also be fine. He would need a few classes to stretch out his muscles properly, but he was healthy, and the doctors assured me that his would regain full circular motion eventually.

Donovan had been stunned to hear about John and Sherlock's conditions, and I felt only a little sympathy for her. She hadn't intended for this to happen, but it had, and she blamed herself.

I saw no need to correct her at the moment.

I was beyond surprised to see Mycroft Holmes at the hospital when I arrived. He was in the ICU with Sherlock at the moment, where he belonged, in all honesty.

I suspected he would want to talk later to my two charges, and I decided I would not throw them to Mycroft Holmes alone, no matter what they had done.

Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock's landlady, was also here. She had left not too long ago to pick up some clothes and supplies for 'her boys'.

"Just this once, though." She had told me, "I'm not their housekeeper."

"Greg Lestrade?" A voice called out, returning me to the present.

"Yeah?" I said roughly, pausing my pacing.

"John Watson has returned from his first surgery for a moment. You can see him for a few minutes, if you'd like. He won't be awake, however."

The nurse led me down a hallway to John's room, where he had momentarily been stationed.

John looked better than when I'd seen him last, but entirely too still. He always had this stiff military air about him, but this wasn't discipline keeping him still; it was pain and suffering.

I wished he was awake so I could talk to him.

I wish he didn't need to be here at all.

"How was the surgery?" I asked the nurse as she prepped him for his second surgery.

"It went perfectly fine. The doctors are estimating about three more surgeries just to correct a few vertebrae here and there, and he should be fine. There probably will only be minimal physical therapy if John here follows Doctor's orders."

"Oh, he will." I promised, "He's a military man, a very good one. He'll do everything he's told. He always does."

The nurse smiled in understanding, "I'm sure, Greg. I'm going to take him down to Room 561 now. Would you like to walk with us, or remain in the waiting room?"

I decided I really needed some fresh air instead, and quickly escaped to the outside air. It was just the parking lot of the hospital, but it was better than the stuffy hospital.

"It is quite nice out here, wouldn't you say?" A soft, proper voice said behind me.

Mycroft Holmes stood, alone, smiling slightly, with his omnipresent umbrella resting against his toe.

"Mycroft." I said in way of greeting, not returning the smile.

"Greg. I just returned from ICU."

"Is Sherlock clear yet?"

"No. They are still working on his lungs at the moment. They haven't even looked at his head much, or his other superficial injuries."

I snorted. Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Sherlock Holmes." I mused, "Always acting invincible, always acting impervious to normal human behavior…reality hits rather hard, doesn't it?"

Mycroft chuckled, "That it does. That it does." We stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, before I returned to the waiting room. This time, Mycroft kept me company. And Mrs. Hudson showed up before long.

The three of us waited in silence for more news on our ailing friends.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

I was awoken with a sudden thud, and dull pain. My eyes shot open, and I stumbled to my feet.

I had fallen from my chair in the waiting room, where I must have fallen asleep.

"Sherlock?" I asked Mrs. Hudson as soon as I saw her knitting next to me, "John?"

"Sherlock is still in ICU, the poor dear." She clucked her tongue, "And John is sleeping in his room now. His surgeries are done for now."

"Any problems?" I asked, climbing stiffly back into a chair.

"None at all, according to the doctors."

"Any word at all on Sherlock?" I sounded desperate, and I was. According the clock, he had been in ICU for close to eleven hours. That was extreme, but at least it meant he was alive still.

Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Hudson said that he had been here when she had left to go sleep at her home on Baker Street, after I had fallen asleep. When she returned, I was still asleep, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I wondered if that was bad news, or if he just had something more important to attend to.

What would be more important than his dying younger brother to the elder Holmes?

Nothing was the answer. Nothing mattered more to Mycroft.

We waited exactly two more hours, putting the time at five o' clock in the morning.

A tired looking doctor walked out, looked around for a moment before spotting us.

"Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes?" He asked. I held out my hand, "Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." I said, "And his is Mrs. Hudson."

"Where is Mycroft Holmes? He is listed as the next of kin on Mr. Holmes' records."

"He isn't here at the moment." I said tersely.

"Here I am." Mycroft announced his presence, while twirling his umbrella. He had appeared out of nowhere, and my respect of the man grew.

"Sherlock is now out of ICU," He said, the unspoken 'finally' resonating at the end of the sentence, "He is still in critical condition, and needs to be carefully watched for the next week and a half."

Mrs. Hudson and I both exchanged a glance, and Mycroft sighed.

The doctor noticed, "Is there something I should know?" He said nervously.

"My brother has very little patience for hospitals." Mycroft said pleasantly, "No patience at all, in fact."

"You'll be lucky if he stays here for a day," I agreed, "You better find the most patient nurse you have."

"Or several," Mrs. Hudson said fondly, "He is quite a handful to look after. I should know, although I'm not their housekeeper."

The doctor looked dismayed, "Sherlock is in an extremely delicate condition right now. You must convince him to stay for at least a week."

"We'll try," I said, shaking my head in doubt, "But you have the most difficult man on the planet staying in that room right now."

"Enough of that," Mycroft said breezily, "What of his injuries?"

"Sherlock was extremely lucky. Had any number of things happened, he very well would have died."

"But he didn't," Mycroft said, beginning to sound testy, and a testy Mycroft was a very intimidating Mycroft, "None of those things happened, and they never will."

The doctor shuffled his feet nervously, "Sherlock, for starters, has a broken ankle. It looks as if it was sprained originally, but a large amount of stress was put on it later, causing the break. We've casted it, and it will take the normal six to eight weeks to heal if he takes it easy.

"He had many bruises, which was right in order with his fall that Miss Donovan described." The doctor continued, "And those will be fine, none are serious."

He paused, "Now, Sherlock has two serious injuries that have more injuries branching off of them. First, his lungs."

My leg began to twitch nervously.

"He was submerged in icy water for some time. That caused mild hypothermia, and it only due to the high fever that was a result of the cold water that Sherlock is not frostbit worse than he is. All of his appendages survived, and while this put some stress on his organs, none of them shut down.

"Like I said, he has a high fever. He has pneumonia, and his immune system is seriously compromised. We're keeping him on antibiotics and essentially drugs for a while, to see what effect they have. He can't breathe on his own at the moment, and he's hooked up to a machine."

He paused again to let this sink in. "Now, I said he had a high fever, and that is probably the most dangerous thing here. It's at 39.6, which is very close to the cutoff point, 40.0 degrees Celsius. It's even more deadly because of the extensive damage to his brain."

I flinched, and Mrs. Hudson patted my hand comfortingly while Mycroft met my gaze. He looked perfectly calm on the outside, but I could faintly tell the stress and tension this was causing on him. He looked older than normal, and more tired and washed out.

The doctor went on as he led us into Sherlock's room, "He has a severe concussion. The surface abrasion will go away shortly, as it wasn't that serious. We didn't even have to shave much of his hair." He smiled, "However, there was no internal bleeding until he was dropped the second time, from the pulley. We've fixed that up as well as possible, but the brain is a fickle thing, and we won't know the severity of this truly until he wakes up.

"Plus, his brain was deprived of oxygen for about five minutes. His ox-sat levels were past fatality, and we don't know what effect that will have on him either."

"Past fatality?" I repeated, "_Past fatality?"_

"It is a term simply meaning that if oxygen hadn't returned to Sherlock's brain immediately, which it had, he would have gone brain-dead. He is not brain-dead, however. But he may suffer some long-term effects."

I shuddered slowly. Long-term effects? Sherlock's brain? In the same context? That was never supposed to happen. I hadn't dared glance at the dectective yet, knowing that I had to hear the doctor out before I did.

What would I do if the brilliant, genius, psychopathic man was no longer there? What if this turned him into some boring, normal, average person? Three things Sherlock was never meant to be.

What if….

I stopped the thoughts there, never having much patience for the 'What If' game.

I turned to the doctor with my mouth open to ask him a question, but at that moment something stunning happened.

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes.

**Oh my god, guys. You have every right to hurl every insult known to man after me because...guess what? This story is over! That's right, this is the last chapter!**

**Ready to kill me yet? This is THE ultimate cliffhanger. If you know any better cliffhangers than this, please give me the story no matter what fanfic actually is. Because I can not imagine something being worse than this. Really. :D **


	13. Chapter 13 (MAKE SURE YOU READ THIS!)

**Haha, I'm just joking. There'll be sequel. But I decided I wanted to break it up into two stories for better flow. **

**Thanks for all the support guys! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as me! THIS IS IT!**

**and don't mind my prank here, I love to tease people :) I really am the worst at cliffhangers and teasers! **

**Hey! UPDATE! If you're looking for the sequel, it's not up yet. And it'll probably be a while. SORRY! **

**And check out the Sherlockian poll on my profile! It'll really help me get some more stories up! THANKS! :) **


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